All I want for Christmas: A very Crabbey Christmas
by whitetiger91
Summary: Vincent has been looking forward to this Christmas, as he does every year. Will his mother be able to ensure that he has the magical Christmas he so deserves? One shot written for the Diagon Alley forum Christmas competition.


**All I want for Christmas: A very Crabbey Christmas tale**

**_Disclaimer:_**_ J. K. Rowling of course owns the entire world of Harry Potter, including the characters mentioned below. You should be thankful for this for I am in no way as creative as she is. _

_Hi everyone, thank you for reading this. This is my first attempt at a Christmas story, written specifically for the Diagon Alley forum competition. I'm afraid it isn't my best work; I did try my hardest but as always I could do with a few improvements (any reviews are most welcome). The story isn't particularly time-correct, with the events not strictly following canon (you'll see what I mean). I also make reference to refridgerators (I'm not sure if wizarding households have them, I assume they do) and body shape and size (please note that I believe that every body shape is beautiful and in no one am implying that I personally am against people who appear obese- I am simply trying to stay true to the characters, even if I feel their voices aren't quite captured). Names have also been made up and yes, this takes place during the 6__th__year._

_Anyway, enough from me, please enjoy my first Christmas fic and I hope you all have a very Merry Christmas!_

The sixteen year old brunette pressed his chubby cheeks against the chilled glass, ignoring the patterns made by rain droplets as they glided down the window. He was on a far more important mission to care about anything as mundane as the weather. Not even his mother, who had just now entered the dimly lit room, could draw his attention.

"He should be here by now!" The boy half grunted, half demanded.

"Who should dear?" The voluptuously-built woman asked. She was afraid he would still expect him to come this year.

"Y'know! Kris-elf!" He again grunted as he continued searching beyond the outside drizzle and sleet for any sign of the old house elf that would bring him his Christmas presents.

"Vinnie, dear, there is something I need to tell you."

"Mmm."

"Turn around please, that's a boy. Oh precious, I'm afraid this year is going to be different."

Mrs Giselda Crabbe was a strong woman, though many would choose to focus on her overwhelmingly large figure. It was true; she was not often considered pretty with her greying mop of shoulder-length hair and plain facial features. Her ability to think fast on her feet at a young age too had been replaced by her willingness to obey her father in a thinly-veiled attempt of gaining his approval. In fact, if it were not for her fine wizarding heritage and tremendous cooking skills, she would never have hoped to be a married woman. She would certainly never have built up the resilience to deal with the public's scrutiny over the sordid reputation of her husband.

Her married life had been largely spent dealing with comparisons made by society of herself against Narcissa Malfoy. Whenever the two attended the same ball, the Malfoy woman would always be complimented on her fashion sense and slim figure. She would constantly be praised for her good looks, charm and brains, leaving Giselda to contemplate how to possibly make herself more glamorous and graceful. She took great comfort in the fact that at least now Narcissa was in a similar position in needing to deal with her husband's mistakes. Sure, she had more money to throw around, but she was unused to dealing with such a blow to her image; this was the one thing that Giselda held over her. At this moment, Giselda intended to use her resilience and inner strength to ensure that she could soothe her son's oncoming troubles.

Taking a deep breath and looking into the brown eyes so like her own, she proceeded to explain their predicament.

"I don't think that Kris-elf will be able to come to us this year. You see- "

"You mean he won't know where we are? Because we moved?" The Crabbes had recently relocated upon the order of the Dark Lord. Since the incident at the ministry a few months ago, all those who bore the dark mark (with the exception of the Malfoys) and their families were required to move into less conspicuous dwellings. For the Crabbes, this meant a shabby old hut in the north of England.

Realising too late that an opportunity had presented itself, Giselda had continued "No, it's more to do with your father-"

"It's not his fault he landed in Azkaban! It's all that stupid Potter's fault! Dad did us proud. The elf isn't going to think we're bad." The most Vincent ever spoke was when he was defending his idol. He couldn't wait for the next year to pass so that he could finally receive his own dark mark.

"You know I love him ever the more for that. You see though, I think it will just be us this year. You'll like that though, won't you? I promise I will cook up an even larger feast with all your favourites."

The mention of food seemed to achieve the desired effect. As Vincent's face slowly turned from a frown to a dreamy look, Giselda sighed in relief. No matter how many times her boy was compared to the spoilt Malfoy child with his immaculate clothes, platinum-blonde locks and Slytherin- cunningness, she could count on him to make peace with any situation. She was proud of her son for his obedience and his ability to be a good-eater. She was a firm believer that a growing boy needed plenty of food, particularly the nourishment that a few glazed pumpkin pasties could offer, and was more than happy to discover that from age four he shared this belief. After all, brains didn't matter if you couldn't physically defend yourself.

"Okay." And with that, Vincent exerted all his energy, heaved himself up, and slowly ambled to the kitchen.

Sighing, she prepared herself for the next task on her list. Brushing off some stray cat fur on her torn brown overcoat and placing old black boots on her swollen feet, she called out some last minute instructions to her son.

"I'm off now sweets, I'll be back within a few hours. Don't forget to lock the door after me and keep your wand on you." Waiting a few moments without so much as a grunt as a reply, she strode into the kitchen to give a proper good-bye.

She was sure Vincent might have succumbed to some form of emotion at the recent news. Expecting him to perhaps be crying, though frowned upon in their household as an act of weakness, she was surprised to see her boy staring blankly into the refrigerator.

"Vincent?"

"I can't. I just can't." He shook his head, dumfounded.

"What pumpkin? Do you want to come with me?" Azkaban wasn't really a place for children, but she was willing to make an exception if her son did not accept the earlier bribe of food.

"No, I just…"

"What?"

"Where did all the chocolate cupcakes go? I know there were more than this." He stood up and presented a beefy hand with three fingers raised.

"You ate them this morning."

"Oh. Okay, well, I'll have to have this then." He lifted the roast out of the fridge that his mother had prepared as a spare, in case her growing boy grew hungry before the next day.

"That's me boy. I'm off now, be good." With another crisis diverted and a kiss on his forehead, she departed the room and headed out the front door.

The weather was as bleak as it had been for the past week; it suited her glum mood well. Christmas was supposed to be a wonderful time of the year. Every year she would bake for weeks to fill the small wooden table her family tore crackers at. Every year she would know her son was happy only by the simple act of one of his drawings appearing on the refrigerator door. Every year 'Kris-elf' would come by to deliver Vincent his gifts after she lulled her boy to sleep. Every year Abel Crabbe would be home. With her husband in prison she knew that it would not be possible to indulge his beliefs; even at sixteen when most children knew the parents were responsible for the surprise gifts left at the foot of the tree. She had thought that she might play the gift-giving house elf this year until it dawned on her that it occurred whilst he sleepily snuggled against her shoulder. To move would awake him, and she relied heavily on the ability of her husband to find the gifts. She hated to disappoint him as he was the only thing in life she did right. The most she could do was have the Goyle boy help her drag in a scraggly green tree they decorated with the faeries that the boys had managed to capture from the neighbour's garden. Perhaps this would be enough to ensure that the refrigerator door did not remain blank as it had been all holidays.

Deciding to not delay the inevitable, she turned on her heal with all the grace she could muster and transported herself to the prison's administration block.

The building itself was grey inside and out, with a few windows overlooking the choppy, dark waters of the ocean. It was a few kilometres from where the actual prison was located for the simple reason of security; had a prisoner found his way to the building during visiting hours, he could easily apparate to his freedom. That is, if he wasn't too lost on hope after the overwhelming depression brought on by the constant dementor presence. The only attempt at decorating for the holidays was the presence of a sickly looking silver fir tree one corner of the room. Tinsel was hanging off of it in thin strips and the cheap, plastic star sitting on the top-most branch was vainly attempting to regain its glow as the luminescent spell slowly wore off. No other person occupied the small room.

Striding to the front reception desk she tapped the small silver bell several times to no avail. 'Honestly', she thought, people could be so rude in this place. She was always made to feel as though she were the one who ought to be in prison stripes. She smiled to herself knowing that at least she wasn't the only one who would feel this way. She could only imagine the seemingly perfect Narcissa turning her nose up at the filthy state of the cold, concrete floors. She did not envy her so much knowing that once she returned to her manor she would spend a great deal of time scrubbing her manicured nails.

Finally, after what felt like hours, an oily-haired guard appeared at the counter. Chewing a wad of gum, the man surveyed the woman in front with a bored expression.

"Great, another one. No visitors today, we aint gonna risk our necks to take you lot to Azkaban in this weather. Not on Christmas Eve. Now get going." Filthy scum, they always had to try to visit at the most inopportune times.

"I am not wishing to visit today, I already-"

"Well? Off with you then! I've got a wife and kids to get home to." This wall all he needed, trust him to get a woman who didn't understand what he was saying. At least she was more amicable than the man this morning that had tried to stab him with a quill upon his refusal to take him to see an inmate.

"If you just would let me-"

"Can. You. Speak. English? I said we're not open. Now goodbye." With that, he swished his wand and let the steel barrier slam down, effectively cutting off his workspace from the reception room.

He hated his job. It wasn't fair that he had to work on public holidays because his wife wanted more diamonds. "Rupert, I need new dress robes." "Rupert, I need a new gold ring for tonight" "Rupert, the Minister's wife just donated a new wing to the ministry's library. We need to do the same. Now." It wasn't fair that he paid for his earlier mistake of not realising she was a gold digger before the third child was born. If it wasn't for her beautiful golden hair and pouting lips he would've left a long time ago. His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp rapping at the barrier. 'What now?'

Opening it he knew to expect the same beefy woman.

"Listen, as you know my husband is in prison. Crabbe, look it up if you have to. Now, all I'm asking is that you give me a signed copy of the release parchment I put in earlier so that he can come home for Christmas and let his son be happy. Understood?" Fanning her inflamed cheeks with one hand, she stared challengingly at the guard as he rolled his eyes.

"Now why would I do that?" He sneered.

"Because you just said you had a wife and kids. It's not fair that MY son has to miss out on HIS Christmas because YOU people won't sign those papers! Your children won't miss out will they? Then please let me Vinnie have a good day!" She half shouted this in a very un-lady-like fashion. Forget it, she would never be Mrs I'm-pureblood-and-skinny Malfoy.

"That I do, that I do." The man grumbled. Giselda stared at him hopefully, thinking he might relent. He appeared to be considering what she had said, hence why the Cheshire grin that spread across his tanned face led to her disappointment.

"And that is why I say, NO. Now for the last time get out before I summon the dementors and allow you to join your husband in his cell overnight!" This time he slammed the barrier down himself.

"Why, you!" She didn't finish the cursing that was to come as a soft voice behind her spoke.

"Never mind Giselda, we were hoping he would change his mind too."

Turning around she came face-to-face with the woman she would consider to be the closest thing to a best friend in the treacherous world to which they belonged. Like her son was to Vincent, the woman was a head taller than herself with long, dark tendrils. Her eyes were a similar murky brown and, despite some dodgy diets found in _Witch Weekly_, were detracted from by the bulk of her figure. Unlike Gisela, her curves had been what attracted her husband; he admired the way her breasts and buttocks easily moulded into his own body when they embraced. Her obviously fake talons were coated in a glittery- green polish befitting the holiday season. Behind her stood a rather tall, heavy-boned figure in black pants and grey robes. He was looking at the two women with his ever-present blank frown, not uttering a single greeting as he twirled his short Hawthorn wand between his stubby fingers.

"Irma, how good to see you! Hello Gregory. Can you believe that they won't let us in?"

"I know, filthy blood traitors think they run the place. If the tables were turned I assure you they wouldn't be laughing."

"I just worry for poor Vincent. He wouldn't say as much but he was looking forward to having a nice family Christmas. I just don't know what to do about his presents, I don't want him losing 'Kris-elf' as well as his father."

"I know, it's a right shame. Marcus was supposed to teach Greggors a few more beater tricks." Lowering her voice, she added, "'I would've thought they'd have been out by now. Do you think He is still mad?"

"No, no. I'm sure it's just hard with all these aurors alert now. Speaking of which, I best be off and prepare for tomorrow. Goodness knows if I might be able to find a house-elf at this time. I must find a way for me son to still believe, did he owl you another drawing Gregory?"

"Yea."

Every Christmas Gregory would be sent a scribbled drawing of Kris-elf. Sometimes the mouldy green pillow case the elf wore would be coloured in with a splotch of emerald-green ink; other times the elf would be standing next to a very poor imitation of the Dark Lord and a disproportioned Greg. He had found out in the fourth year by a snotty Ravenclaw that Kris-Elf was nothing more than a parent dressed up delivering parents. In a rare moment of empathy, he decided not to confide this devastating piece of information with his best friend. It was difficult avoiding the topic with Malfoy around who did not care for Vincent's happiness in the least. Sometimes he would have to think real hard to come up with an excuse for Malfoy's behaviour, telling Vincent that he didn't get served by Kris-Elf because he was already so wealthy. Knowing that these stupid prison-guards were refusing visitation rights had him seeing red.

"Lovely. Well, you two do enjoy your Christmas, I'm sure the family will be reunited soon."

"Thank you dear, it may be sooner than you think." Tapping a green claw to her bulgy nose she smirked towards the barrier, "Greggors and I are just going to sort this little mishap out."

"Excellent, have a good one." Giselda did not feel particularly excellent, knowing there was a very slim chance that the Goyle's plan would work, whatever it might be.

Walking out into the cold once more, she turned on her heel to disapparate home to Vincent.

Later that night, she sat down on the old couch with her son. They had spent the remainder of the day baking (or in Vincent's case, eating) a wide variety of delicious foods, including custard tarts, pumpkin pies, potatoes stuffed in their jackets, jumping black pudding and treacle. The aroma of these treats continued to waft through the air as they had played gobstones and exploding snap. Now it was time for their traditional story-reading which would send Vincent into a deep sleep.

"Would you like to try and read it this year dear?" He wasn't really the best reader, but Gisela didn't mind. It was her secret delight to excite her baby boy with the silly adventures of garden gnomes who tried to round up a sleigh of thestrals to save Christmas.

"No, you do it." He leaned closer to his mother's side, swinging up his slipper-clad feet onto the arm of the moth-eaten couch.

Opening the colourful book, she began.

"Once upon a time…"

Vincent's eyes slowly drifted shut as his mother wove thrilling tales of dragons in red hats and trains chugging through mountains carrying carriages full of toys. His mouth was up-turned in a sleepy grin, making his face look remarkably like a baby giant's.

"The troll was stu-, stu-, stubborn, and would not let Candy-corn and his friends pass onto the ice. He was a greedy-"

Before she could continue with the troll's ugly description, she was interrupted by a great thud at the door. Vincent jumped in shock at the unexpected noise.

'Who could that be at this time of night?' She pondered as she tried to locate her wand, Vincent doing the same. Two loud knocks masked the crunching of the snow underneath heavy feet as whoever was outside impatiently waited to be let in.

"Open up!" A muffled voice came.

'Aurors, great. Just what I need. Oh I do hope the Goyle's didn't land themselves into too much trouble.' "Vincent, stay right here. You remember the spells don't you?" His chin flubbered as he hurriedly nodded.

Approaching the door cautiously, she held her wand up to her face. She was not going to have these people give her more grief. Her chunky fist extended towards the door handle as she prepared to give them just what they deserved.

"Just what do you think you are-"

"Merry Christmas! I hope you don't mind us coming on such short notice, thought we would have a surprise family gathering. Oh, why are you armed dear?"

Standing before her in the archway were two familiar figures draped in heavy grey cloaks. She hastily stored her wand back into the pocket of her lemon-yellow dressing grown and moved aside to let them in.

"Not at all, come in, come in. We were just reading _A Very Elf Christmas_, won't we dear?" Vincent was still on the couch with his mouth gaping open slightly at the new comers.

"Thank you, Merry Christmas Vincent!" The female in the pair wiggled her fingers at the boy as a greeting. "We bought a few cauldron cakes with us, not too many though. Here, I'll take them to the kitchen and the boys can get talking." With that, she dumped her cloak onto the wire rack posted by the door and ambled into the kitchen, followed closely by Giselda. In her thick hands were three tall white boxes stacked precariously on top of one another.

The second visitor was left standing in the entrance in his very bulky, misshaped navy sweater. Looking to the boy who had now stood from the couch, he mumbled a quick greeting. As happy as he was to see him, he wasn't sure if Vincent felt slight disappointment at his unexpected appearance.

"Hullo Greg. Want some turkey leg?"

With that, he received his answer.

The following hours had the Crabbe and Goyle sons and matriarchs participating in several games and meals. They played pin the hat on the house elf and gobstones, more exploding snap and several attempts at wizarding chess. Of course, the game was never played as its creators intended; Vincent and Gregory much preferred to encourage their pieces to brawl. As their voices grew hoarse from much enthusiastic shouting and Irma had had enough fire whisky, the occupants turned in for the night. Irma and Gregory would be sleeping in the living room on conjured purple cots; Giselda had lighted a few glass jars to keep them warm, not for the first time wishing that she could have remained in her previous house with the crackling fire place.

The house soon grew silent with the exception of rhythmic snoring, horrendous only to those who were not a member of the Crabbe or Goyle clan. Giselda tucked her son into his woolly blankets, kissing his forehead lightly. His father may not have been able to make it after all, but at least he had been able to celebrate the evening with his best mate. Perhaps tomorrow would be filled with further fun and enjoyment for him. Glancing one last time at her sleeping angel, she bustled out of the room and tip-toed down the hallway to her own empty bed.

"Wake up! Wake up! Kris-elf was here! Get up mother, get up!"

Giselda sat bolt upright. Her dreams had been plagued by dementors wearing green pillow cases and clawing at her husband with equally green nails. Blinking rapidly to clear her eyes, she made to move out of bed.

"Quickly, come down!" Vincent didn't wait a moment longer as he ran to the living room as fast as his stumpy legs would carry him.

Yawning widely, she stood up, scratched the top of her lip where new bristles were beginning to form, and put on her dressing gown and matching fluffy slippers. She was hoping that her son had not mistaken the plastic candy canes she had laid out on the coffee table as decorations to be his present.

"Vinnie pumpkin, I don't think that-"

Giselda's mouth dropped open in amazement. She did not recognise her own living room or the straggly tree that had been the main feature. Expecting to find an almost bear room, she was instead met with a large, sprawling tree covered in snow descending from a small grey cloud. Among the branches the faeries were replaced with a few delicate silver baubles. Gleaming silver and gold tinsel was draped haphazardly around the room and throughout the tree's spiky leaves. Underneath the tree she found her son sitting cross-legged next to his friend. Both boys were eagerly ripping open shiny emerald paper, tossing aside the silver bows the packages were adorned with.

Irma beckoned her friend over, apparently just as surprised as her friend.

"Would you look at this? It is simply splendid! Splendid I say! How did you ever manage to pull this off?"

Giselda simply shook her head, wondering the same thing. 'Who could have done such a thing? No one else knew of our situation but the Goyles.' She accepted the warm mug of coffee Irma proffered her, unable to really take in the situation.

The two boys gasped happily finding that they had received matching toy broomsticks. They happily unwrapped the clear plastic keeping them safe and proceeded to hoot loudly as they whizzed around the ceiling. Gregory seemed to spend a few moments watching the amazement on his friend's face before encouraging him to play another round of exploding snap.

Around lunchtime a large, spotted barn owl flew to the kitchen window sill, clutching two identical rolls of parchment in its holly-covered talons. As Giselda retrieved the post the owl gave a small hoot before retreating once more into the cloudy, grey sky. One of the letters was addressed to herself, the other to Irma. Both envelopes bore the emblem of the wizarding prison in heavy black ink.

Tearing at the letter's opening, she withdrew a small piece of yellowed- parchment. The customary whistled festive tune sounded as she unfolded the letter and began to read its hastily scrawled contents.

_Giselda, _

_Merry Christmas. I am dreadfully sorry that I was unable to play Kris-elf this year, I hope our boy wasn't too disappointed. Please assure him that I will endeavour to find him a few presents as soon as I get out of this wretched place. He has done us proud in wanting to take my place by the Dark Lord's side._

_Enjoy the day my sweet and wait for my return._

_Regards, Abel._

Irma had been reading her own letter, an identical frown forming upon her face. 'Typical men'. Turning to her companion, she mistook her confusion for exasperation.

"Dear, don't worry, I'm sure they will be out soon. We did our best to get them out yesterday but I'm afraid the prison is even more guarded than we thought. The boys seem to be having a wonderful time."

Indeed they were, both consuming a mound of sweet potato and roast lamb. That was not what had Giselda confused though. She had firmly believed that her husband was responsible somehow for the return of Kris-elf. She was sure he had found a way to get the presents and living room set up for his heir, perhaps by borrowing a house-elf from one of his colleagues. He knew that she could not have done it herself; the only shopping she did was in the way of food. Her husband proclaimed himself the best at 'buying' gifts for his family and would not have it any other way.

She was left to ponder this new information, eventually reaching the conclusion that it must have been someone else, until the Goyles left after the Christmas dinner. Irma graced her friend with two sloppy kisses on either cheek whilst Vincent and Gregory gave each other a polite nod. She thanked each of the Goyles profusely for their company, repeating the expected "it was lovely to see you" and "travel safely".

However, before the couple could apparate home, Giselda pulled aside Gregory, leaving Irma to once again pull at Vincent's cheeks and coo at his growing up. She had not long noticed that the misshaped sweater he wore the previous evening now fit him snugly. Not sure if her hunch was correct, she whispered a quick thank you for looking out for his mate with an added wink before allowing him to escape to his awaiting mother.

With the front door finally closing, Giselda sighed to herself. It hadn't been the same as last year, but this Christmas worked out somehow. At least her precious boy was not left without a visit from Kris-elf, despite his father's absence. She hoped that the amount of presents he mysteriously received and the two days' company would prevent any loneliness from his idol's unwilling abandonment. She turned around only to be met with the pudgy face of her beloved son.

"Merry Christmas, mum. Here." He pressed a crumpled piece of parchment into her hand before bounding away to play once more with his new toys.

Looking down, a broad grin spread across her face and her heart burned with happiness. If someone had happened to look at her features more closely, they would have been able to see a small tear forming on the outer edge of her left eye. Letting it fall for once, she marched into the kitchen, strode directly to the fridge, and whipped out her wand. Performing a simple affixing spell, she attached the now smoothed-out parchment to the surface and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

"Merry Christmas, Vinnie." She whispered to the drawing of herself, the Goyles and her son playing under the Christmas tree, guarded by the figure of Abel donned in a green pillow case.


End file.
